Filthy Rich Christmas (Filthy Rich Harems #6)

Chapter 1

Carina

My hands won't stop trembling. I press them against my thighs, trying to steady myself as the elevator climbs higher into William Montclair's Manhattan penthouse.

Each floor that passes makes my stomach twist tighter.

The numbers tick by—twenty, thirty, forty—and with each one, my anxiety ratchets higher.

I need this job.

God, I need this job so badly I can taste the desperation on my tongue.

The elevator is all mirrors and gold, reflecting my image back at me from every angle.

I look pale, drawn. The stress of the last year has carved hollows beneath my cheekbones that weren't there before.

Before Dylan. Before the divorce. Before I learned that love could be weaponized, turned into something sharp and cruel that cuts you apart from the inside.

I close my eyes, trying to push away the memory of finding those papers.

The hidden debts. The credit cards in my name I never knew existed.

The way Dylan smiled when the lawyer explained I'd be responsible for half of everything, even though I'd never seen a penny of it.

Even though he'd been funneling money to offshore accounts while I scrimped to buy groceries with the "allowance" he gave me.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open to reveal a marble foyer that probably cost more than my entire divorce settlement—which is to say, nothing. My ex-husband made sure of that. Made sure I walked away with nothing but the clothes on my back and a mountain of debt.

I step out onto the pristine marble, my black pumps clicking against the floor. I smooth down my wrap dress—it's a deep emerald green that brings out my eyes, with a cut that flatters my curves.

Dylan always hated how I dressed, said the feminine cuts made me look desperate for attention, made me look fat. But I love the way the fabric hugs my body, love feeling like a woman instead of the emaciated ghost he tried to turn me into.

This morning, I'd stood in front of my cracked bathroom mirror for a full five minutes, trying to see myself the way he'd trained me to see—too much, too soft, too everything. But fuck him. I'm not his to judge anymore.

"Ms. Stevens?" A woman in a severe black suit appears from a hallway. Her hair is pulled back in a bun so tight it looks painful, and her expression suggests she's never smiled in her life. "Mr. Montclair is waiting in the kitchen. This way."

I'd wondered about the interview location when I got the email. Most companies would have you come to their offices, but the message had been specific: Mr. Montclair's private residence.

But as I take in the professional-grade kitchen that puts most restaurants to shame, I realize this makes sense. How else would they test a chef except in a real kitchen? And what billionaire CEO is going to schlep to some corporate test kitchen when he has this at home?

I follow her through the penthouse, trying not to gawk at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, the modern art that probably costs more than most people's houses, the casual display of wealth that makes my chest tight with a mixture of envy and intimidation.

We pass a living room that's bigger than my entire apartment, all white furniture and abstract sculptures. Who lives like this? What kind of person needs this much space?

The kitchen—Jesus Christ, the kitchen. It's bigger than the restaurant kitchen I worked in during culinary school, all gleaming stainless steel and black granite. Professional-grade appliances line the walls, some I recognize, others that look like they belong in a spaceship rather than a kitchen.

There's an eight-burner range, what looks like a commercial salamander, warming drawers, two ovens, and machines I can't even identify.

My fingers itch to touch them, to explore, to cook something magnificent in this temple to culinary excess.

But I keep my hands clasped in front of me, trying to look professional rather than desperately poor and overwhelmed.

Three men stand near the massive island, and my breath catches.

I knew William Montclair was wealthy—Eden Provisions is one of the most exclusive gourmet food companies in the country—but seeing him in person lots of other adjectives come to mind.

He's tall, commanding, with dark brown hair silvered at the temples even though he's only thirty-seven according to the Forbes article I'd devoured last night.

His suit is charcoal gray, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. But it's his eyes that stop me cold—steel gray and sharp as winter, assessing me like I'm a cut of meat he's considering purchasing.

"Ms. Stevens." His voice is clipped, efficient, with a trace of something—irritation? Boredom? "You have exactly one hour to prepare a four-course meal. The menu is on the counter. Everything you need is available. Questions?"

I blink, certain I've misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "The cooking audition. One hour. Four courses." He glances at his watch—of course it's a Patek Philippe. "Starting now."

My mouth opens, then closes. This isn't how job interviews work. Where's the sitting down, the questions about my experience, my strengths and weaknesses? But the sharp angle of his jaw tells me arguing would be pointless. Men like William Montclair don't explain themselves to women like me.

I move to the counter, picking up the menu with hands that have started shaking again. The paper is thick, expensive, the kind that makes a satisfying sound when you touch it.

Amuse-bouche: Seared scallops with cauliflower puree

First course: Butternut squash soup with sage

Main: Duck breast with cherry reduction

Dessert: Chocolate soufflé

Fuck. A soufflé. In an unfamiliar kitchen. With unfamiliar equipment. In one hour. This has to be a fucking joke.

"Is there a problem?" William's voice cuts through my panic like a blade.

"No, sir." I force my voice steady, channeling every ounce of false confidence I learned during my marriage. "No problem at all."

I tie my hair back in a low ponytail, careful to make it neat. Professional. I learned the hard way that appearances matter more than skill in certain circles.

My hands under the water are steady now—cooking does that to me, centers me when everything else is a mess.

I wash them thoroughly, then survey the kitchen properly.

The ingredients are already laid out—at least they're not making me hunt through the pantry.

But some of these appliances... I've never seen anything like them.

"Is there a problem?" William asks again.

"No, sir." I force my voice to be steady.

What is with this guy and asking me if there are problems?

"You've got this, Carina," I whisper to myself, a habit from culinary school when the pressure got too intense. Then louder, "Where are the knives?"

"Third drawer to your left," a different voice answers. Warmer, friendlier, with a hint of amusement.

I turn to see a younger man leaning against the counter.

Unruly dark blond hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it, bright blue eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

He's beautiful in that careless way some men are, all easy charm and natural grace.

There's paint under his fingernails, I notice—bright blue and yellow. Odd for someone wearing a suit.

"Thanks." I pull out the knives, testing their weight. Perfect balance. Of course. They're probably Japanese, hand-forged, the kind of knives I’ve always dreamed of owning.

"I'm Knox," he offers, pushing off from the counter to move closer. "The baby brother."

"Marketing director," William corrects sharply, not looking up from his phone. "And this is Travis Hale, our CFO."

The third man nods—warm hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, solid build like a former athlete who still hits the gym regularly, the kind of steady presence that probably keeps the other two from killing each other.

His suit is navy, conservative but well-cut.

He gives me an encouraging smile that helps my racing heart slow just a fraction.

"Nice to meet you all," I manage, then turn back to my ingredients. One hour. I can do this. I've done more with less in far worse conditions.

I start with the soufflé—it needs the most time.

My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over as I separate eggs, whisk whites, melt chocolate.

The familiar rhythm of cooking calms my nerves.

This is what I know. This is what I'm good at.

This is the one thing Dylan could never take from me, though God knows he tried.

"Why do you waste time on this fancy food shit? Just make something normal for once."

I push his voice away, focusing on the peaks forming in my egg whites. Soft peaks, then firm. Perfect.

"Interesting choice, starting with dessert," William observes. He's moved closer, watching with those intense gray eyes.

I don't look up from my whisking. "The soufflé needs to rest after baking. Better to get it in early and work on the other courses while it's in the oven."

"Strategic." There's something in his voice—approval? Surprise? "Most people panic and go in order."

"I'm not most people." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I bite my lip. Too bold. Too much.

But Knox laughs, bright and delighted. "I like her already, Will."

"We'll see," William says, but when I glance up, there's something almost like amusement in his eyes.

Twenty minutes in, I'm in my zone. The scallops are prepped and waiting, the soup is simmering, the duck is scored and ready.

The kitchen hums around me, expensive appliances purring like well-fed cats.

I reach for spices, tasting as I go, adjusting, perfecting.

This is my language, my art. In the kitchen, I know exactly who I am.